I have neither much experience nor much perseverance in the writing of stories - I am thinking exclusively of ghost stories,
for I have never cared to try anyother kind - and it has amused me sometimes to think of the stories which have crossed my
mind from time to time and never materialised properly. Never properly: for some of them I have actually written down, and
they repose in a drawer somewhere. To borrow Sir Walter Scott's most frequent quotation, "Look on (them) again I dare
not." They are not good enough. Yet some of them had ideas in them which refused to blossom in the surroundings I had devised
for them, but perhaps came up in other forms in stories that did get as far as print. Let me recall them for the benefit (so
to style it) of someone else.

There was the story of a man travelling in a train in France. Facing him sat a typical Frenchwoman of mature years, with
the usual moustache and a very confirmed countenance. He had nothing to read but an antiquated novel he had bought for the
binding - Madame de Lichtenstein it was called. Tired of looking out of the window and studying his vis-à-vis, he began drowsily turning the pages and paused at a conversation between two of the characters. They
were discussing an acquaintance, a woman who lived in a largish house at Marcilly-le-Hayer. The house was described, and -
here we are coming to a point - the mysterious disappearance of the woman's husband. Her name was mentioned, and my reader
couldn't help thinking he knew it in some other connexion. Just then the train stopped at a country station, the traveller,
with a start, woke up from a doze - the book open in his hand - the woman opposite him got out, and on the label of her
bag he read the name that seemed to be in his novel. Well, he went on to Troyes, and from there he made
excursions, and one of these took him -at lunch-time - to - yes, to Marcilly-le-Hayer. The hotel in the Grand Place faced
a three-gabled house of some pretensions. Out of it came a well-dressed woman, whom he had seen before. Conversation
with the waiter. Yes, the lady was a widow, or so it was believed. At any rate nobody knew what had become of her husband.
Here I think we broke down. Of course, there was no such conversation in the novel as the traveller thought he had read.

Then there was quite a long one about two undergraduates spending Christmas in a country house that belonged to one of
them. An uncle, next heir to the estate, lived near. Plausible and learned Roman priest, living with the uncle, makes himself
agreeable to the young men. Dark walks home at night after dining with the uncle. Curious disturbances as they pass through
the shrubberies. Strange, shapeless tracks in the snow round the house, observed in the morning. Efforts to lure away the
companion and isolate the proprieter and get hime to come out after dark. Ultimate defeat and death of the priest, upon whom
the Familiar, baulked of another victim, turns.

Also the story of two students of King's College, in the sixteenth century (who were, in fact, expelled thence for magical
practices), and their nocturnal expedition to a witch at Fenstanton, and of how, at the turning to Lolworth, on the Huntingson
road, they met a company leading an unwilling figure whom they seemed to know. And of how, on arriving at Fenstanton, the
learned of the witch's death, and of what they saw seated upon her newly-dug grave.

These were some of the tales which got as far as the stage of being written down, at least in part. There were others
that flitted across the mind from time to time, but never really took shape. The man, for instance (naturally a man with something
on his mind), who, sitting in his study one evening, was startled by a slight sound, turned hastily, and saw a certain dead
face looking out from between the window curtains: a dead face, but with living eyes. He made a dash at the curtains and tore
them apart. A pasteboard mask fell to the floor. But there was no one there, and the eyes of the mask were but eye-holes.
What was to be done about that?

There is the touch on the shoulder that comes when you are walking quickly homewards in the dark hours, full of anticipation
of the warm room and bright fire, and when you pull up, startled, what face or no-face do you see?

Similarly, when Mr. Badman had decided to settle the hash of Mr. Goodman and had picked out just the right thicket by
the roadside from which to fire at him, how came it exactly that when Mr. Goodman and his unexpected friend actually did pass,
they found Mr. Badman weltering in the road? He was able to tell them something of what he found waiting for him - even beckoning
to him - in the thicket: enough to prevent them from looking into it themselves. There were possibilities here, but the labour
of constructing the proper setting has been beyond me.

There were possibilities, too, in the Christmas cracker, if the right people pull it, and if the motto which they find
inside has the right message on it. They will probably leave the party early, pleading indisposition; but very likely a
previous engagement of long standing would be the more truthful excuse

In parenthesis, many common objects may be made the vehicles of retribution, and where retribution is not called for,
of malice. Be careful how you handle the packet you pick up in the carriage-drive, particularly if it contains nail parings
and hair. Do not, in any case, bring it into the house. It may not be alone... (Dots are believed by many writers of our day
to be a good substitute for effective writing. They are certainly an easy one. Let us have a few more......)

Late on Monday night a toad came into my study: and, though nothing has so far seemed to link itself with this appearance,
I feel that it may not be quite prudent to brood over topics which may open the interior eye to the presence of more formidable
visitants. Enough said.